Chapter 7

_A Parlour in_ ASHFIELD'S _House._

_Enter_ ASHFIELD _and Wife._

_Ash._ I tell ye, I zee'd un gi' Susan a letter, an I dan't like it a bit.

_Dame._ Nor I: if shame should come to the poor child--I say, Tummas, what would Mrs. Grundy say then?

_Ash._ Dom Mrs. Grundy; what would my poor wold heart zay? but I be bound it be all innocence.

_Enter_ HENRY.

_Dame._ Ah, Henry! we have not seen thee at home all day.

_Ash._ And I do zomehow fanzie things dan't go zo clever when thee'rt away from farm.

_Henry._ My mind has been greatly agitated.

_Ash._ Well, won't thee go and zee the ploughing match?

_Henry._ Tell me, will not those who obtain prizes be introduced to the Castle?

_Ash._ Ees, and feasted in the great hall.

_Henry._ My good friend, I wish to become a candidate.

_Dame._ You, Henry!

_Henry._ It is time I exerted the faculties Heaven has bestowed on me; and though my heavy fate crushes the proud hopes this heart conceives, still let me prove myself worthy of the place Providence has assigned me.--[_Aside._] Should I succeed, it will bring me to the presence of that man, who (I know not why) seems the dictator of my fate.--[_To them._] Will you furnish me with the means?

_Ash._ Will I!--Thou shalt ha' the best plough in the parish--I wish it were all gould for thy zake--and better cattle there can't be noowhere.

_Henry._ Thanks, my good friend--my benefactor--I have little time for preparation--So receive my gratitude, and farewell. [_Exit._

_Dame._ A blessing go with thee!

_Ash._ I zay, Henry, take Jolly, and Smiler, and Captain, but dan't ye take thic lazy beast Genius--I'll be shot if having vive load an acre on my wheat land could please me more.

_Dame._ Tummas, here comes Susan reading the letter.

_Ash._ How pale she do look! dan't she?

_Dame._ Ah! poor thing!--If----

_Ash._ Hauld thy tongue, woolye? [_They retire._

_Enter_ SUSAN, _reading the letter._

_Susan._ Is it possible! Can the man to whom I've given my heart write thus!--"I am compelled to marry Miss Blandford; but my love for my Susan is unalterable--I hope she will not, for an act of necessity, cease to think with tenderness on her faithful Robert."----Oh man! ungrateful man! it is from our bosoms alone you derive your power; how cruel then to use it, in fixing in those bosoms endless sorrow and despair!----"Still think with tenderness"--Base, dishonourable insinuation--He might have allowed me to esteem him. [_Locks up the letter in a box on the table, and exit weeping._]

[ASHFIELD _and_ DAME _come forward._]

_Ash._ Poor thing!--What can be the matter--She locked up the letter in thic box, and then burst into tears. [_Looks at the box._

_Dame._ Yes, Tummas; she locked it in that box sure enough. [_Shakes a bunch of keys that hangs at her side._

_Ash._ What be doing, Dame? what be doing?

_Dame._ [_With affected indifference._] Nothing; I was only touching these keys. [_They look at the box and keys significantly._

_Ash._ A good tightish bunch!

_Dame._ Yes; they are of all sizes. [_They look as before._

_Ash._ Indeed!--Well--Eh!--Dame, why dan't ye speak? thou canst chatter fast enow zometimes.

_Dame._ Nay, Tummas--I dare say--if--you know best--but I think I could find----

_Ash._ Well, Eh!--you can just try you knaw [_Greatly agitated._] You can try, just vor the vun on't: but mind, dan't ye make a noise. [_She opens it._] Why, thee hasn't opened it?

_Dame._ Nay, Tummas! you told me!

_Ash._ Did I?

_Dame._ There's the letter!

_Ash._ Well, why do ye gi't to I?--I dan't want it, I'm sure. [_Taking it--he turns it over--she eyes it eagerly--he is about to open it._]--She's coming! she's coming! [_He conceals the letter, they tremble violently._] No, she's gone into t'other room. [_They hang their heads dejectedly, then look at each other._] What mun that feyther an mother be doing, that do blush and tremble at their own dater's coming. [_Weeps._] Dang it, has she desarv'd it of us--Did she ever deceive us?--Were she not always the most open hearted, dutifullest, kindest--and thee to goa like a dom'd spy, and open her box, poor thing!

_Dame._ Nay, Tummas----

_Ash._ You did--I zaw you do it myzel!--you look like a thief, now--you doe--Hush!--no--Dame--here be the letter--I won't reead a word on't; put it where thee vound it, and as thee vound it.

_Dame._ With all my heart. [_She returns the letter to the box._

_Ash._ [_Embraces her._] Now I can wi' pleasure hug my wold wife, and look my child in the vace again--I'll call her, and ax her about it; and if she dan't speak without disguisement, I'll be bound to be shot--Dame, be the colour of sheame off my face yet?--I never zeed thee look ugly before----Susan, my dear Sue, come here a bit, woollye?

_Enter_ SUSAN.

_Susan._ Yes, my dear father.

_Ash._ Sue, we do wish to give thee a bit of admonishing and parent-like conzultation.

_Susan._ I hope I have ever attended to your admonitions.

_Ash._ Ees, bless thee, I do believe thee hast, lamb; but we all want our memories jogg'd a bit, or why else do parson preach us all to sleep every Zunday--Zo thic be the topic--Dame and I, Sue, did zee a letter gi'd to thee, and thee--bursted into tears, and lock'd un up in thic box--and then Dame and I--we--that's all.

_Susan._ My dear father, if I concealed the contents of that letter from your knowledge, it was because I did not wish your heart to share in the pain mine feels.

_Ash._ Dang it, didn't I tell thee zoo? [_To his wife._

_Dame._ Nay, Tummas, did I say otherwise?

_Susan._ Believe me, my dear parents, my heart never gave birth to a thought my tongue feared to utter.

_Ash._ There, the very words I zaid?

_Susan._ If you wish to see the letter, I will shew it to you. [_She searches for the key._

_Dame._ Here's a key will open it.

_Ash._ Drabbit it, hold thy tongue, thou wold fool? [_Aside._] No, Susan. I'll not zee it--I'll believe my child.

_Susan._ You shall not find your confidence ill-placed--it is true the gentleman declared he loved me; it is equally true that declaration was not unpleasing to me--Alas! it is also true, that his letter contains sentiments disgraceful to himself, and insulting to me.

_Ash._ Drabbit it, if I'd knaw'd that, when we were cudgelling a bit, I wou'd ha' lapt my stick about his ribs pratty tightish, I wou'd.

_Susan._ Pray, father, don't you resent his conduct to me.

_Ash._ What! mayn't I lather un a bit?

_Susan._ Oh, no! I've the strongest reasons to the contrary!

_Ash._ Well, Sue, I won't--I'll behave as pratty as I always do--but it be time to go to the green, and zee the fine zights--How I do hate the noise of thic dom'd bunch of keys--But bless thee, my child--dan't forget that vartue to a young woman be vor all the world like--like--Dang it, I ha' gotten it all in my head; but zomehow--I can't talk it--but vartue be to a young woman what corn be to a blade o'wheat, do you zee; for while the corn be there it be glorious to the eye, and it be called the staff of life; but take that treasure away, and what do remain? why nought but thic worthless straw that man and beast do tread upon. [_Exeunt._